


This is Wrong

by DaisyFairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angry John, Angst, Anorexia, Drug Use, Happy Ending, Hugs, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Post Mary, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is out, Sherlock is tempted to do something he shouldn't. When John find out there will be consequences.<br/>Sorry, I was aiming to write something funny, then this happened.</p><p>I have changed the rating from teen to mature due to language and this is turning out a lot darker than I thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to write for my two words prompt series, but it all went wrong. This doesn't even fit the prompt anymore.  
> Maybe later I'll try again with the prompt, but in the meantime.. Here you go.

This is wrong, very wrong. I can't do this. It's bad. John wouldn't like it. Bad, not good, bad. But...

Just for a minute, thirty seconds, ten. That's not so bad. Not even wearing it then, that's more like trying it on. John will never know anyway, I'll put it right back. What does he expect anyway, leaving it there, tempting me. In a box in the top drawer next to his bed. How much temptation does he think I can stand. I am an addict, not known for self control, and he hasn't even tried to hide it.

Mary wouldn't mind. She loved John, in a never tell him my real name, or where I'm from, try to kill his best friend kind of way. Not enough to look both ways when she crossed the bloody road whilst carrying the thing John cared about more than anything in her belly apparently. But she did love him, so she wouldn't mind if... where the hell is that chain of logic meant to be leading? She loved John, she died taking the baby with her, some fucking assassin, killed in a 30 mile an hour zone buying milk. Fucking Mary. She had no right to this ring anyway, no right to John's heart if she wasn't going to look after it. Ha! Not that I'm any better, how much pain have I caused him?

But I'm not trying to take his heart, just want to pretend for a few minutes. No! Ten seconds, that's what I said, no slipping now, or I'll end up staging a burglary, turning the whole flat over so that I can take it and keep it forever, and... could I do that? I could, no one would suspect. I could keep it forever, wear it every night, keep it in my pocket, put it on a chain and wear it next to my heart always. 

Stop!! I'm getting carried away. Ten seconds, yes, ten seconds to take the edge off. Then never again, mustn't even look at it again or I'll end up actually going through with that crazy plan.

There it is, the plain gold band, shiny, John has been polishing it. The partner to the one he still wears on his left hand after six months. I can pretend, just pretend, that it is mine, that we were the ones who got married. It is small, hard to get it onto my ring finger, but if I push, uh, hurts a bit, there it is. 

Oh! Look. God don't cry, John will see if my eyes are puffy. Look how perfect that looks. As if John loves me, as if he owns me. As if I am his to do whatever he wants with. He could kiss me , mark me, tie me up, screw me. Anything he wants, forever. Stop! Getting carried away again.

It does look perfect though. Ten seconds is up, just one more. Beautiful. John's ring on my finger. Time's up. Oh, it is tight, there, back in the box. Box in the drawer. Close the drawer. Out of the bedroom. I can do this. He will never know. I'll never do this again.

Of course, that's what I said last week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be just a short single chapter thing, but following a comment on the first chapter I have been inspired to write more.

Three months later and Sherlock is well and truly addicted. Ten (eleven) seconds once a week when John is at his therapist's, became 30, became 10 minutes. Now that John has started working at the clinic two days a week, and seeing Ella once a week it has become an hour three times a week. It is becoming dangerously normal, when Lestrade called with a case last week Sherlock had been halfway down the stairs when he remembered he had the ring on. Not that it wasn't still a thrill, it's just that he was becoming more comfortable in the fantasy. In truth there is beginning to be a worrying blurring in his mind between reality, where John is his friend but no more, who is still in the depths of grief for his wife and child, and the fantasy where Mary never existed and he came back from his time away to John's open arms and then his bed, with a wedding swiftly following and a whole life before them. If he thought about it he should be worried that this could lead to a complete mental break from reality. The almost anorexic levels of eating that he was indulging in to allow the ring to fit more easily would send John into a rage if he was in any fit state to see past the tricks Sherlock was using to hide it. But addicts are good at denial, set up a logical argument and you can make anything seem like a good idea in your own head, so Sherlock carried on carefully ignoring the voices inside telling him to stop.  
Sherlock is careful of course, a small part of him still vigilante enough to understand that wearing his best friend's dead wife's wedding ring is not good and must never be discovered. So he waits for at least fifteen minutes after John leaves the flat before getting the ring, just in case John had forgotten anything and comes back. He also makes sure that Mrs Hudson is either out, or that he has already seen her that morning, reducing the chances of her popping in to a negligible level.  
Today he is exhausted, he had stayed up all night for an experiment in the kitchen, and now the lack of sleep is catching up with him. John is gone for the day to the clinic, so he decides to indulge for a little while, then return the ring and have a sleep before John returns. He feels the familiar thrill as he approaches John's bedroom door, he opens the drawer and locates the box. It has been moved to the left hand corner of the drawer so he will have to be careful to return it correctly. Getting the gold band out and slipping it on with almost no difficulty now. He smiles as he looks down, feeling his mind rearrange itself into his alter ego as Sherlock Watson-Holmes. This happiness is so addictive, bordering on madness he thinks, before pushing the thought away. He goes back downstairs to read the paper, glancing at the ring every few minutes and smiling to himself. As he reads his mind begins to slow, his eyes drifting closed, until he is asleep lying down on the coach, the newspaper abandoned on his lap, and his left hand, still wearing the stolen ring, hanging down off of the edge his fingers trailing on the floor.

Hours later John trudges up the stairs to the flat. It is good to be back at work, helps to take his mind off of things, but it is exhausting having to constantly hide the sadness inside. Trying to plaster on a smile. If he lets it slip everyone becomes unbearably kind. Tiptoeing around him as if he is going to fall apart any second. He wants to shout at them that he is not weak, that he doesn't need their pity, that he doesn't need them sneaking around screening his appointments so he doesn't have to see any pregnant women or babies, but he knows that would be a lie. He does need it, he would fall apart. Along with the grief he is still wading through he is also dealing with guilt that he is not doing better after nine months. At least he is home now, Sherlock is always just as demanding and inconsiderate as he has ever been, apart from the milk, and they never talk about that. This is a sanctuary where he can be as depressed as he wants without worrying about being suffocated with unwanted coddling.

He pushes open the door to the flat and immediately spots Sherlock asleep on the couch. He smiles fondly and goes straight into the kitchen to make tea. Returning to the lounge he puts a cup for Sherlock on the table then sits in his armchair with his own tea. He sighs and takes a sip, then frowns as he catches sight of a gleam from near the floor by Sherlock's hand. He leans forward to see better and his breath catches in his throat. It can't be. He quickly puts his mug down and runs up to his bedroom. The bedside drawer is open and the ring box is on top of the unit, empty.   
John's vision begins to blur and his breathing speeds up, his jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth and his hands clench into fists. He marches down the stairs and shouts "What the fuck Sherlock? What do you think you are doing?"

Sherlock sits bolt upright in shock at the sudden noise, his eyes are wide when he sees John standing in front of him obviously enraged. His eyes flick momentarily to his left hand, then back to John's face. "John, what's wrong?" He asks, trying to keep his tone neutral. As he speaks he tries to unobtrusively put his hand into his pocket.

"Don't fucking bother. I've seen it. What the hell are you doing with Mary's ring?" John screams at him.

"John..."

"Don't, I don't even want to know. Whatever stupid game you are playing or experiment you are doing, just stop. That" pointing at the ring "is the most precious thing I have left, and you think you can just take it, like it's nothing!"

There are tears in John's eyes and his hands are clenching and unclenching as he tries to control himself. He turns away and goes upstairs.

Sherlock sits on the sofa in shock, John is angry with him. No, angry had happened before, this is more, the look in his eyes, that had looked like hate. Tears prickle his eyes, but he fights to maintain the mask of impassivity that he habitually wears on his face to hide himself from the world.

Two minutes later John comes back down the stairs with a holdall. He holds out his hand and growls "Give it to me."

Sherlock pulls the ring off of his finger, but holds onto it for a moment saying "John.."

"Don't. Don't you dare talk to me. I am this close to breaking your fucking nose, and once I start I might not be able to stop, so just give it to me NOW."

"John, let me explain.." Sherlock says standing and taking a step forward.

"No!" John yells. He grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, pushes him back into his chair and roughly pulls the ring out of his hand, before quickly putting it into the top pocket on his shirt.

"John."

"You don't learn do you." John growls, digging his fingers into Sherlock's biceps hard enough to bruise then pushing him hard against the back of the couch. He stands up and moves away, picking up the holdall and walking towards the front door.

Sherlock follows him to the door and reaches out, he lays a hand on John's shoulder and pleads "Please don't go."

John growls in frustration, drops his bag and spins around. He punches Sherlock hard on the cheek, and then when he stumbles John grabs the younger man and bodily throws him to the ground. He pulls back his foot and kicks Sherlock hard in the stomach, he just wants to keep going, but manages to pull himself back from the brink. He grabs his bag and runs out of the flat, leaving his erstwhile friend on the floor crying with a cut on his cheek and a bloody nose where it had connected with the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third chapter is almost finished so hopefully not too long until I post it :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later Sherlock finds the energy to crawl from where John has left him on the floor to the couch. It isn't so much the pain that has kept him there, although there is a fair amount of that, but the abject misery of knowing that John hates him. All the light seems to have gone from his life, there is a big black hole where his heart is. But that is not important, John is missing, that is important, more than any pain that Sherlock could ever feel. With a trembling hand he reaches for his phone from the coffee table and sends a message.

  
**John, I am sorry, where are you? SH**

  
He sits back and dabs at the blood that has almost dried on his face with the sleeve of his dressing gown. He stares at the tea that John had made for him, cold now, sitting on the table. Likely to be the last tea that John will ever make for him now. The last kindness that he can reasonably expect to ever have from John. He waits for 15 minutes then sends another text.

**Where are you? I just need to know you are safe. SH**

Waiting again, completely unable to find the energy to move Sherlock cries silent tears at the loss of the love of his life. The man who permeates every part of his life. He has to keep John safe. Five minutes later a third text.

**Please. I am begging, where are you? Are you safe? If you don't reply I am going to get Mycroft to find you. SH**

Thirty seconds later his phone beeps

**Staying with Greg Fuck off**

Sherlock feels a wave of relief. He had been having visions of John sleeping under some bridge or in an abandoned car park. He starts to compose a long message to Lestrade.

**John says he is staying with you. You need to look after him as he hates me now.**

  
**DO NOT tell him you are looking after him, he hates that.**

  
**You must NEVER run out of milk, but never tell him you are buying milk, or ask him to buy milk. He will** **have a panic attack. We need to work on that soon, I am formulating a plan.**

  
**When he has nightmares (this will be two or three times a night) you must play him music and he will** go **back to sleep. I will send you a recording to use. DO NOT tell him he had been having nightmares.**

  
**You must ensure that he does not watch any programmes featuring babies, or women named Mary. He is now able to cope with blonde women. You must continue my process of gradual acclimation to seeing these things, I will let you know which programmes you should put on to achieve this. DO** **NOT tell him you are doing this.**

  
**Do not give John any more than the bare minimum of sympathy for his loss. He will be sad a lot, do not comment on this, he needs to not have to hide his sadness.**

  
**Do not bother trying to defend me, I deserve his hatred, he will just end up leaving and I need him to stay with you so you can look after him.**

  
**Do not call me with any cases. Do call me if John needs anything. SH**

  
He then busies himself searching the TV listings to check which programmes John can safely watch, making sure to include some in the list that feature babies or small children in the periphery to allow a small amount of exposure. He then makes some recordings of himself playing John's favourite songs, it is quite painful to be honest, his arms are sore where John has bruised them, and standing up straight hurts his stomach where he was kicked, but John is likely to need the music sometime in the next few hours so he can't delay.

Once those tasks are complete and everything has been sent to Lestrade he sinks back into the couch to stare at the mug of tea again. Having something to do for John had taken his mind off of things, but now there is nothing that he wants to do, nothing that can make this better. Well, that's not quite true. He walks to his bedroom, one arm slung protectively over his stomach. He struggles but manages to shift the chest of drawers in his room and lift the loose floorboard underneath to pull out his needles and his emergency supply. John can't hate him anymore than he already does, so there is no reason not to anymore. He lays down on the bed and injects all of it straight into his arm, no point trying to hide the marks either, no one will be here to notice or care anyway. He quickly drifts into oblivion on his bed, bloodied and bruised, drooling onto his pillow with tears running down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry, it kind of got worse. I promise I am aiming for a happy ending, it just seems to be taking it's time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's point of view as he leaves the flat.

John leaves the flat and goes out of the door to the street. He needs to get away, as far away as he can before he goes back and batters Sherlock some more. A small voice inside is telling him he should make sure that Sherlock is alright, but it is drowned out by the rage that he feels. Honestly he has been feeling it ever since the young police officer came to his door nine months ago with bad news, it got deeper when he had to identify the body, and threatened to burst the banks of his control when it turned out that the van that had killed his family had been stolen and they couldn't find out who had been driving. By the funeral the rage had overflowed the dam, filling every corner of his mind and bubbling underneath everything else, but he had hidden it, pushed it down, only letting out occasional small outbursts of cutting sarcasm or shouts of frustration.

He has talked about the grief and the loneliness to his therapist, and the loss of the life he should have had, the years of being a father and all the things he wanted to do with his daughter, school plays, building sandcastles, taking her to university, walking her down the aisle. But he had never talked about the rage, has been ashamed of it. It had to be hidden, he wouldn't end up like his father, an angry drunk who had the whole family scared of incurring his wrath, so he had pretended that it didn't exist, hoping reality would bend to his will.

Well Sherlock had put an end to that pretense hadn't he. All the anger that had built up, all directed at one person. Someone who hadn't even tried to fight back. Got to get away.

John walks as fast as he can until he hears his phone beep. Pulling it out he sees the message from Sherlock.

  
**John, I am sorry, where are you? SH**

  
The message that had clearly been meant to placate instead allows John's rage to build higher. The voice of worry that he could have seriously injured his friend had quietened now, he can't be too injured if he is texting, so there is nothing to hold back the anger. John thinks "How dare he expect forgiveness? What right does he have to ask where I am?"

He continues to walk aimlessly, jaw tight and his left hand is clenched into a fist, his right hand is holding the bag, but the fingers are gripping the strap so tight his knuckles are white. Another beep from his phone.

  
**Where are you? I just need to know you are safe. SH**

Still not answering you, you bastard. John looks around and realises that he is near to Piccadilly Circus.  It seems that subconsciously he has been heading towards The Yard. His head clears briefly and he texts Greg.

  
**Can I stay with you for a few nights? I need to get away.**

Greg replies instantly.

  
**Of course mate. What has his Highness been up to now? I'm on my way home, want a lift?**

**I'm at Piccadilly Circus. I'll wait for you.**

Then a message from Sherlock

  
**Please. I am begging, where are you? Are you safe? If you don't reply I am going to get Mycroft to find you. SH**

  
God, I don't need Mycroft sticking his nose in.

  
**Staying with Greg Fuck off**

  
That should deal with the bastard.

A few minutes later Greg's car pulls up and John gets in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today, sorry. I hope John's reaction makes a bit more sense now.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, what's he done this time? You look livid." says Greg "I had a message from him a minute ago, I haven't read it yet, what sort of excuses should I expect?"

"Don't read it, he'll just try to get you to convince me to go back. He is being a complete bastard, inconsiderate prick. He is a fucking cunt."  John is raving.

Greg glances over at him surprised, he has never heard John use such language, or such anger directed at the consulting detective. He must have really done something bad this time. "Alright mate. I'm sure its not that bad. Let's just get to my flat hey. We'll order a takeaway and you can tell me about it."

John manages to bite his tongue for the rest of the trip. Once at Greg's flat he starts to pace up and down the small lounge. His muscles tense and his spine stiff, his jaw still set firm and a furrow in his forehead between his eyes.

Greg stands in the doorway to the kitchen and looks at John, worrying about what could have caused him to be so angry.  
"Chinese alright? There's a place nearby that is pretty good and delivers quickly."

John can only nod, so Greg goes ahead and orders, making a guess as to what his guest would like. He starts to get some beer out of the fridge, but then a glance at John still pacing convinces him that alcohol might not be the best idea, so he makes a couple of mugs of tea and takes them through.

By the time the food arrives John's adrenaline seems to abated a little and he is a bit calmer. The pair are sitting in the lounge eating their chow mein and duck when Greg hears his message alert sound twice. When he sees that they are from Sherlock he puts the phone away. He wants to get the story out of John first before being distracted by whatever excuses Sherlock is going to come up with. Instead he tentatively asks "So, what is it this time? Destroyed another one of your jumpers? Body parts in the bath?"

"No." John says firmly. "He just has no boundaries, concept of personal space or respect for other people's belongings."

"Yeah, well I could have told you that, is hardly news is it?" Says Greg, trying to keep this light.

"Hmm. He's gone too far this time." John says with finality.

Greg knows when he is fighting a losing battle, so changes the subject, resolving to return to this in the morning.  
"Carol has taken the kids away on holiday for a few weeks so they won't be needing the spare room any time soon. Until then it's yours."

"Thanks." John says, still tense.

They eat the rest of the meal in silence, as soon as he is done John stands and tells Greg that he is going to bed. Retrieving his holdall from by the front door he goes into the spare room and closes the door with a bang. Greg shakes his head and tidies away the dirty plates, forgetting all about the texts from Sherlock. Shortly afterwards he goes to bed himself, it seems like tomorrow could be a very long day.  
\----  
The following morning John wakes up momentarily confused about where he is. He is still exhausted, he had woken to nightmares twice in the night, weird confused jumbles of Afghanistan, Sherlock's jump from St. Barts and the death of his family, both times it had taken him a long time to get back to sleep, the dream images were hard to shake, and his simmering anger at Sherlock stealing Mary's ring hadn't helped one bit. He hates the nightmares, they make him feel trapped, even in sleep he can't escape from the pain, and he feels a wave of sadness wash over him that they have returned, showing how weak his mind really is.

As the events from the previous evening come back to him he groans. He reaches over to his bag and pulls out the ring box containing the band that had caused all of this. He holds it in the palm of his hand, feeling the cold metal gradually warm from his own body heat. This ring is a symbol of everything that he has lost, but now that the adrenaline has receded he can concede that he had overreacted. It is a symbol to him, but Sherlock doesn't do sentiment, to him it is probably just an old ring of no significance. It isn't really Sherlock's fault that he just isn't wired that way.

He hadn't even given Sherlock a chance to say anything, not that he can think of anything Sherlock could have said while John was so angry that could have made it better. In any case he shouldn't have attacked the man like that. He winces as he thinks of the way he had hurt his best friend, he must have hit him hard as his knuckles are still sore from the punch.

He feels guilty for hurting Sherlock, but apart from that, he feels better than he has for a while. Letting the rage out to play for a while seems to have helped his state of mind considerably.

John closes his eyes and tries to decide what he should do. He decides he is not ready to forgive, but maybe an apology, he texts Sherlock.

**I'm still angry with you, but I'm sorry for hurting you. Are you ok?**

He then gets up to use the bathroom and goes to join Greg in the kitchen for breakfast. As he gets there he receives a message.

**I deserved it. I am fine. You do not need to contact me again. SH**

John mumbles a greeting to Greg and turns to make himself some tea, automatically making a second mug and then having to pretend that it had been for Greg all along, even though there is already a mug on the table 3/4 full. He sits at the table but can't meet Greg's eyes, he is so embarrassed about the way he had acted the previous evening.

"So John. Last night, what was that all about? Don't think I've ever seen you that worked up."

"Oh he just got to me. He, he was wearing Mary's wedding ring when I got home from work and I lost it. I mean, he is always inconsiderate, I can't tell you how many times he has woken me up with his violin in the middle of the night, and he seems to have this obsession with hogging the remote control. This though, it's important, do you understand?" Greg nods "And he just didn't care, just took it."

"You know he doesn't mean anything by it though don't you John. He's just above all the emotion nonsense us mere mortals live with. Probably had some highly important reason to wear a ring for a case or something."

"Yeah I know Greg. I'm feeling a bit better now, still don't think I can face him today, is it ok if I hide out here a bit longer?"

"Of course mate, I've got the day off, but I've got a few errands to run so you can have a bit of peace and quiet. We are practically out of milk so I'll just nip to the shop to get some before I leave so you can have tea."

John stiffens and his breathing becomes laboured. Oh for God's sake, not this again. He feels himself begin to panic as the memories return of that last morning with Mary "Just getting milk Love. See you in a minute." She had said, then she was gone forever. He is stuck in a loop of that memory his breathing degenerating into shallow pants now and his eyes are glazed.

Greg hurriedly kneels in front of the doctor on the floor and tries to calm him. Speaking soothing words about John being safe, that there is nothing to worry about and reassuring him that he shouldn't feel embarrassed. He doesn't really know what he is doing, but after a few minutes it seems to work and John comes back to himself.

"I'm sorry Greg. I just. Sorry. I'm so pathetic." John says with tears in his eyes and a tremble in his voice.

"It's ok. I know its been a tough year for you. Is there anything I can do?"

"Could you go and check on Sherlock for me. I." John pauses, unwilling to tell Greg what he had done, but despite Sherlock's reassure he was still a little worried. After all the detective didn't seem to think any injury was serious unless he spilled at least 3 pints of blood or a part of his body actually fell off. "I, I hit him last night. Pretty hard. Could you check he is really ok, he said he was in a text earlier, but I'm not sure if I believe him. I could have cracked his cheekbone, and I gave him....I kicked him in the stomach. Could you just check he isn't feeling nauseous and there is no blood in his urine. If he has either of those call Mycroft and get him to take Sherlock to A&E. Don't even bother trying yourself."

Greg looks shocked "You kicked him? John, what's going on."

Tears roll down the doctors face as he admits "I'm just so angry, all the time, and it just all came out. I apologised this morning in a text, but I'm worried that if I see him again I, I don't know what I'll end up doing."

"You are seeing someone about all this, aren't you." Greg asks, worried about both of his friends.

"Yeah, well, sort of. I haven't exactly been honest with her. I. Oh fuck Greg, this is such a mess."

"I heard you having nightmares last night,"

John interrupts saying "I'm so sorry if I woke you. I haven't had a nightmare for months. This must have stirred it all up again."

"No, it's Ok, don't worry about it. I was going to say I didn't realise how bad it still was for you, I'm sorry."

John suddenly realises he has shown too much, he will have to hide it all away if he ever wants Greg to think of him as anything other than a pathetic useless loser who is incapable of moving on with his life. He forces himself to put his mask back on "I'll be fine. It's just, well I suppose living with that inconsiderate idiot would get to anyone eventually. I'll just stay one more night if that's ok, then I'll get out of your hair."

Greg is even more worried at the sudden change in John. He looks almost normal now, where just seconds before he had been crying and seemed to be feeling an overwhelming jumble of emotions. He tries to keep his voice light though as he says "I'll just get dressed, then I'll go and check on him." He leaves the kitchen and heads to his room, deciding that now is the time to read Sherlock's texts to see what his side of things is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my ramblings are making sense :-)  
> I know, I know, Greg would have read Sherlock's messages, but, well no excuses, just because ;-)
> 
> I have kind of plotted out the rest of the story now, so, yay, I have an idea of where this is going. I think it is going to be about 11 chapters in all.


	6. Chapter 6

Once he is in his room Greg takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the texts the had received from Sherlock the previous day. The most recent one is a link that takes him to some recordings of violin music, and the one before is a list of television programmes. Greg is wondering what the hell this is about when he opens the first text that Sherlock had sent.

He reads it wide eyed, he had known that the high functioning sociopath thing that Sherlock liked to throw around was rubbish, but he had never suspected him to be capable of this. Caring for John so deeply yet hiding it to spare his feelings.

Greg now curses himself for not reading the text yesterday, this could have been really useful information. He isn't convinced that he could have got away with playing violin music in the night without John realising that it was for his benefit though.

This did bring up another question, Sherlock obviously had an understanding of John's emotional state, so he must have known that taking the ring would upset him. Why would he do it when it seems he has been spending huge amounts of time and effort to avoid John being upset.

Then there is the assertion that he deserves to be hated, and he doesn't want any cases, that is almost unheard of. Greg is now concerned about both of his friends. He pushes the speed dial for Sherlock, it rings over and over, he has almost given up when the phone is answered.

"Lestrade, what does John need?" Sherlock says, there is a worrying slur to his speech.

"John is fine. I need to check on you, are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Just worry about John."  Sherlock snaps and then hangs up.

Sighing and mentally waving goodbye to his relaxing day off Greg considers whether to ring back but realises it is pointless, he needs to go round to Baker Street. He dresses quickly and then goes to the kitchen to grab his keys. He hears the shower so goes to the bathroom door planning on letting John know he is leaving. As he approaches the door he is certain that he can hear quiet sobbing, his first instinct is to ask John if he is ok, but then remembers what Sherlock said about letting John be sad. Thinking about it he realises that John's abrupt change of mood earlier had probably been due to him thinking he had to hide his feelings. Instead he calls out "Just going out now John, call me if you need anything."

"Ok." John calls in response, his voice sounds strained, but Greg ignores it for now and leaves the flat.

\-----  
Sherlock comes back to consciousness with a groan. He is sore all over and some protective part of his mind is trying to pull him back into oblivion to save him the pain of waking and remembering the awful truth that John is gone. He is hovering on the edges of sleep when the message alert of his phone drags him back to reality.

**I'm still angry with you, but I'm sorry for hurting you. Are you ok?**

A thrill rushes through him as he read this. Maybe John doesn't hate him after all, he starts to consider the possibility of being forgiven someday, but then remembers that this is John. John the most caring person he has ever met, the doctor, who would have treated enemy soldiers gladly when he was at war. Would probably have patched up the man who had shot him if the opportunity arose. John is a good man and would not want anyone, even his worst enemy to be injured if he could avoid it. This regret at lashing out at him doesn't mean that John doesn't hate him, it just shows regret that he caused injury to a human being, even one as detestable as himself. Wanting to assuage John's guilt Sherlock sends a text.

**I deserved it. I am fine. You do not need to contact me again. SH**

Now he is awake, and reminded of just how amazing John is, Sherlock wants nothing more than to sink into mindless oblivion again, the empty feeling in his chest far outweighing the pain in his arms, face and stomach from John's attack. He closes his eyes, but sleep eludes him, he seems unable to turn his brain off without chemical assistance.

He gets off of the bed gingerly and goes to relieve himself in the bathroom. A glimpse in the mirror shows the graze on his cheek and the dark bruise around his eye. There is blood caked on his lips and chin where it had streamed from his nose, his dressing gown and t-shirt are covered in it. He pulls them off and drops them in the corner, then splashes water onto his face making a half hearted attempt to wash the blood away.

Going into the kitchen on autopilot he turns the kettle on without thinking and sinks into the wooden chair at the table. How had he been so stupid as to be caught?

He knew that John cared about the ring, it was linked to all of the memories of how he had wanted his life to be, before he was forced to come back here, to his second choice, yet he had taken it for his own selfish desires, not been careful enough to avoid being caught. Sherlock closes his eyes and ponders his own stupidity and wonders at why John had even thought him second choice, surely living with someone as worthless as him should be a last resort, only better than living in the gutter in a cardboard box. Yet John had returned to Baker Street within weeks of Mary's passing. And now he is gone, John has lost his first choice in life, and now his second, as nonsensical as it may be, and that is Sherlock's fault.

Having used all of his secret supply last night Sherlock contemplates going out to buy more, but the heaviness of his soul seems to weigh him down too much to make the effort. It isn't so much the drugs that he craves anyway, but the absence of thought that can come with them. His eyes flick to the cupboard in the kitchen where they keep alcohol. That would do as a substitute, at least for now. He stands and takes out a full bottle of scotch, not bothering with a glass he swigs several big mouthfuls straight from the bottle.

Fifteen minutes later he is a quarter of the way into the bottle and beginning to feel it's effects. His stomach rebels by roiling threateningly when he tries to take another mouthful, so he puts the bottle down and rests his head on the table. The distant sound of his phone ringing can be heard, but it is several seconds before it registers, he is going to ignore it, but then realises that it could be John or Greg. Standing as steadily as he can with the remnants of last night in his system along with the scotch and the fact that he hasn't eaten for 24 hours he hurries to his room and snatches up the phone.

"Lestrade, what does John need?" He says, trying his best to sound coherent.

"John is fine. I need to check on you, are you ok?" Lestrade replies, he sounds worried, Sherlock wonders why Lestrade is wasting time thinking about him when it is clearly John who is important now.

"I'm fine. Just worry about John."  He snaps irritatedly then hangs up.

He goes back to the kitchen and gets the bottle, taking it to the lounge he sits in his armchair and takes another swig. He is a little cold, wearing just his pyjama bottoms, but another mouthful of scotch seems to warm him a little. He settles back, cradling the bottle in his arms and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for a while. I've just had a bit of a nightmare posting this properly, but all sorted now I think.
> 
> Apologies to anyone who read the "wonky" version :-)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is 1:45am here, but who needs sleep :-).
> 
> Time for Greg to see Sherlock...

Greg pulls up outside 221B and knocks on the door. He stands and waits in the chilly air, taking a few steps back to try to look into the upstairs windows, being unable to see inside he steps back to the door and uses the heavy brass knocker again. He is just thinking that he should have brought John's keys with him when Mrs Hudson answers the door. She looks pale and is in her dressing gown.

"I'm sorry Inspector. I'm afraid I've got one of my headaches I was in bed."

"Sorry if I woke you, but I really need to see Sherlock. Have you been up there this morning?"

"Oh, no dear. Is everything alright? I really should have taken him his morning tea by now." She says sounding worried.

"No, no, it's fine. It's just, they had an argument last night and John wanted me to check on Sherlock. I'm sure its all fine." Greg replies reassuringly, not wanting to worry her.

"I heard some shouting last night, but I didn't think it was serious. They always used to have these falling outs you know, before, and John would take himself off to calm down, then come back and everything would be right as rain. I thought they were just getting back to how they used to be. Is it more serious than that?" She asks with a frown.

"I'm not sure. You just get in out of this cold and go back to bed. Take care of yourself, I'll just go up and check on him, don't worry I'm sure we'll get it all straightened out."

Looking doubtful she retreats into her own flat. As Greg is halfway up the stairs he hears her calling after him "If you need anything let me know deary. I do worry about my boys you know."  
\---

Greg goes up to the flat and pushes on the door, it is unlocked as normal so he goes straight in. His eyes sweep the room as they would a crime scene. There is blood in the floor near to the front door, a dried patch with a few dried drops making a trail to the couch. The rest of the flat looks normal as far as he can tell, like a tornado had run through the place dropping police files and crime scene photos behind it. 

In the middle of the chaos Greg's eyes alight on Sherlock, passed out in his armchair hugging an almost empty bottle of scotch to his bare chest. Greg is shocked at the state of the man, he has not seen Sherlock like this for years, before John, before the rehab clinic, back when he was using so many drugs that he looked like a pincushion. He has a black eye and bruised cheek, there are traces of blood around his nose and chin, and Greg can just about see the sides of a bruise on his stomach around the side of the bottle. His hair is a tangled mess and he is unshaven, unprecedented in recent years unless he is undercover. Seeing the detective bare chested also lets Greg see something that has been hidden before, he can count every rib and his collar bones are far too prominent. Easing the bottle out of Sherlock's grasp he feels how thin the man's arms have become and can see the concave stomach that it was hidden beneath.

"Christ, what have you done to yourself?" He mumbles. He moves the detective's arm to feel his pulse and freezes when he sees the puncture mark on the inside of his elbow.

"Jesus!" he exclaims, before continuing his task. He is no doctor but he has had some training in emergency first aid and Sherlock's pulse seems a little irregular to him. "Hardly surprising" he thinks ruefully thinking of the track mark and empty bottle. 

Steeling himself for a difficult conversation he shakes Sherlock's shoulder to wake him as he calls the Detective's name.

Sherlock blinks his eyes and looks blearily up at him. 

"What 'r you doin here." He slurs.

"Checking on you you git. What the hell have you done to yourself?"

"John hates me, need to forget." Is the reply Greg gets, before Sherlock continues "'s not workin, need more."

"No! You've had quite enough. John doesn't hate you, he sent me to make sure you were alright."

"You l'ft 'im. Go back. 'e might need you." Sherlock mumbles, trying to be commanding but barely able to look straight.

"John will be fine for a while. He told me what happened. I need to check your injuries, he is really worried about you."

Sherlock smiles slightly at that, but then frowns "John worries 'bout ev'yone, u'less we're f'ghting for our lives. Doesn't mean 'nything."

Greg rolls his eyes "Come on, lets get you up, Doctors orders. I need to see if you have blood in your pee, and seeing as I can't trust you right now I guess that means I'm going to have to join you in the bathroom." He drags Sherlock from the chair, noticing a wince as the taller man stands upright. Greg pulls and half carries him into the bathroom as Sherlock stumbles on every step.

"Now, I'll stand over here while you use the toilet, don't flush though." Greg lets of go of Sherlock to stand in the corner, but has to quickly grab him again when he sways and almost falls to the floor. "Right, fine." The DI sighs, guiding Sherlock to the toilet. Standing behind him he helps to pull Sherlock's trousers down, Sherlock begins to urinate, but despite holding himself his aim is way off and urine hits the floor.

"Oh crap!" Greg exclaims, and swearing to himself that no one is ever going to hear about this he reaches around and holds Sherlock's penis steady until he has finished. Somehow he gets them both to the sink and with four hands washed he takes Sherlock back to the coach. Returning to the bathroom he looks into the toilet and sees that the urine is normal with no sign of blood. Cursing his life Greg gives the floor a brief clean with some toilet paper and flushes it away.

Going back to the lounge Greg discovers that Sherlock has moved back to his armchair and is currently drinking the last of the scotch straight from the bottle. Closing his eyes and tipping his head back Greg takes a deep breath and silently pleads for strength, before trying to deal with the man who is falling apart before his eyes.

"Come on mate, stand up for a second so I can check your stomach out." He says pulling the drunken man out of his chair.

"'s p'ntless Gr'g. 'm fine. Look after J'n."

Greg sighs and feels the bruise on Sherlock's stomach. It is an ugly purple colour, but Sherlock only flinches very slightly when he presses on it and the muscles feel normal underneath. There doesn't seem to be any sign of fever, the skin is unbroken and it is too low to worry about broken ribs. Deciding that the injury is not serious he allows Sherlock to return to his seat, where he instantly pulls his knees up to chest, curling into a ball.

Greg shakes his head and starts straightening some of the papers lying around so that they are at least in neat piles. He then takes an old mug of tea off of the table, intending to empty it out and fetch some fresh drinks from the kitchen. As he turns to leave the room however he feels Sherlock grab his shoulder. "Leave the mug." He growls angrily directly into Greg's ear.

Greg turns, Sherlock is standing directly behind him and his eyes look much sharper than they had a few moments ago. 

"I'm just cleaning up a bit, I'll get you some more tea, this is cold." He says slightly confused.

"Leave it." Sherlock demands.

Putting the mug back down slowly Greg says "Ok, Ok. It's fine. I'll just go and get something for you to drink and eat. You just stay here."

Sherlock however doesn't really seem to be listening, as soon as the mug was back on the table he had returned to his chair and sat there staring at it. Sighing (again) Greg goes to the kitchen and fetches tea and toast for Sherlock, while trying not to look around at the biohazards covering all of the kitchen surfaces and most of the fridge shelves. He takes them into the lounge and sets then on the table in front of Sherlock.

"Please eat this, and drink the tea. We need to try to get you sober and healthy."

"Why?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh for God's... Just because Sherlock. You are my friend and we need to try to get you sorted out. Just look at you. How long had it been since you have eaten properly. You look practically anorexic."

"'m not. Just need'd to make the ring fit."

"Why, why did you want to wear Mary's ring. You have been looking after John all this time, why upset him like that."

"Is John ok?"

"Not really, but you know that. He will be though, and you two will get over this, it'll all be breaking and entering and me having to get you out of jail again before you know it."

A small smile appears on Sherlock's face "I love him Greg... I love him." the detective says sleepily. "I j'st want'd to pret'nd we were married, he loved me. J'st for a bit."

Greg gulps, he had always suspected that Sherlock's feelings for John went beyond friendship, but to hear it now from the man when he is barely aware of what he is saying feels intrusive.

"He can't love me. No one c'n love me." Sherlock whispers, with tears falling down face.

"Don't talk nonsense mate. Come on, drink this." Greg says holding out the mug. Sherlock takes it and actually does as he is told, drinking the whole mug in few mouthfuls.

"That's a lad. Come on, eat this now." Greg says holding out the toast. Sherlock takes it, his eyes are blank now, he seems to have largely retreated inside his mind, but Greg is happy to take advantage of that to get some nutrition into him. Sherlock mechanically eats the toast, and when Greg goes to fetch more he eats that too, along with another mug of tea.

Sherlock sits in his chair, seeming unaware of what is going on around him. Greg tidies away the mug and plate, deciding to leave the other mug that Sherlock had been so protective of. He then finds the cupboard in the kitchen that holds alcohol, a few bottles of red wine, an unopened bottle of whisky and inexplicably half a bottle of tequila. He gathers them up into an empty cardboard box that he found lying around and places it by the front door to take with him.

Shaking Sherlock's shoulder Greg says "Sherlock. I'm going now. Are you in there?"

Sherlock's eyes come into focus and settle on Greg's face. "What're you doin here. You need to l'k aft'r John."

"Yes, you said. I'm going now, but you need to look after yourself. No more alcohol, and no more drugs. I mean it. John is going to forgive you, so you need to sort yourself out for when he comes back."

"He's comin back?"

"Yes, he is. Look after yourself. Food, water or tea, and sleep. Please promise me. John doesn't want to come back and find you like this."

Sherlock considers, the possibility of John forgiving him penetrating the fog in his mind. He nods slowly then says "For John."

Greg has a feeling that this is the best he can expect for now. Squeezing Sherlock's shoulder gently he turns and leaves, taking the box of alcohol with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are enjoying this.. Sorry updates are a bit erratic, real life getting in the way I'm afraid (nothing bad, just busy).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but finally here is the next chapter :-)

Greg makes his way downstairs, he considers asking Mrs Hudson to look after Sherlock, but she really hadn't looked well so this is the last thing she needs to deal with. Sneaking past her door he steps out into the cold and damp. He puts the box of alcohol in the boot of his car and, standing on the pavement, pulls his phone out to call a number that he has only very rarely used.

"Detective Inspector, this is most unexpected. How can I help you?" Says Mycroft, doing admirably well to hide the worry that this call has sparked.

"There's a bit of a problem with Sherlock. He had a bit of a fight with John."

"A regular occurrence surely?" Mycroft says in his best why is this idiot bothering me? tone.

"Yes, but this was a bit more.. physical than normal and, um, he came off worst." Greg says, worried about the reception this news will get.

"Does he require hospitalisation?" Mycroft asks coldly.

"Not from his injuries, but, um, well the thing is he's drunk and he hasn't been eating and.. he's been using again, I think it goes deeper too, he's been hiding it but it looks like the not eating thing has been going on for a while and I'm worried that he might be a bit.. delusional about his relationship with John. He's alright at the moment, but I think he's going to need help to get clean and.. well, sane."

"I see, so Doctor Watson has upset the balance of my brother's brain and physically attacked him causing him to to relapse and resort to alcohol." Mycroft states, his tone like ice. "And where might I find the Doctor? I need to deal with him."

"Oh, no! Come on Myc, there's no need for that." Greg says wishing he had never made this phone call.

The silence from the other end of the phone is deafening.

"Oh for God's sake, I've known you 12 years... fine. Mr Holmes, Sir I would strongly recommend not having Doctor Watson disappeared, I think the chances of getting Sherlock clean if you do that are just about zero."

After a brief pause Mycroft says "You could be correct Inspector. They do seem to have developed a rather co-dependent relationship."

"Yeah. Well the thing is, John's in a pretty bad way too. You know what happened with Mary, well he hasn't got over it, he seems to have anger issues and frankly, they are both kind of falling apart. I think we need to get help for both of them before they go completely off the deep end."

"So your plan is for me to arrange and presumable pay for psychiatric treatment for the man who has injured my brother."

"I want you to help the man that your brother is in love with. I'm not sure if John is ever going to feel the same way, but Sherlock told me he is in love with John."

Greg heard a deep sigh down the phone "I did warn him against sentiment, it seems that he did not listen to me. Very well, I will make some enquiries as to treatment options. I will be in touch later."

Greg heard the phone disconnect, put it back into his pocket and then got into his car to head home for another round of trying to stop his friends from destroying themselves.

When Greg gets home he finds John sitting on the sofa staring into space. He had thought that John was doing well in the last few months, had seen him at crime scenes and even the pub, but it seems that the mask has slipped and he just looks so defeated. Maybe this is how he has been the whole time in private, at 221b with only Sherlock as an audience, but Greg hadn't seen him look this sad since the first few months after Mary died. He really doesn't want to add to John's worries, but it seems like Sherlock is in an even worse state, and if the detective is going to accept any help it will probably take John to convince him.

"I went to see Sherlock."

John looks up, Greg can see worry in his eyes, but there is also an underlying tension, a tightness around the eyes and a hard set to his shoulders that betrays the anger simmering under the surface.

"He's ok, no lasting damage so don't worry on that score. There is another problem though. After you left last night, he must have had a stash somewhere, he has been using again, and he has drunk a whole bottle of whisky."

John is staring at him in horror "Because of me?"

"Because he is an addict. You might have triggered a relapse, but you know he has an addictive personality. Cocaine, nicotine, puzzles, he could get himself addicted to anything. He hasn't been eating either, he didn't have his top on when I got there and, oh John, I couldn't believe how thin he is. I know he's always been a skinny git, but I could see every rib and his arms are just skin and bone."

John closes his eyes "How did I miss that?" He says, then starts to shout "I'm meant to be a doctor, and my best friend and flatmate has developed bloody anorexia without me even noticing."

"He says it isn't anorexia, he said he just did it so the ring would fit."

"What! What the hell is his obsession with Mary's ring? And anyway, like you said he can get himself addicted to anything, now he's started he probably is anorexic."

"He ate while I was there."

"Yeah, kept it down did he? Or maybe that's it for the day now, probably won't eat again for 24 hours."

"I don't know mate. He did tell me something about the ring though. I feel a bit weird telling you, he didn't really know what he was saying he was so out of it." Greg pauses, considering if he is doing the right thing.

"What did he say?" John asks.

"He said he wanted to wear it to pretend that you were in love with him and that you were married." 

John's eyes widen "No, you must have got it wrong. He couldn't, he doesn't feel things like that."

"I'm pretty sure that's what he said. It was a bit slurred, but yeah, that's about it. He wanted to pretend you loved him, but he said that no one will ever love him, and he sent me a text yesterday saying that he deserves to be hated.

"So it is my fault, all of it. Christ, what have I done?"

"It's not really your fault though is it, him falling for you, you haven't been leading him on or anything. Do you think, maybe, you and him? Not yet, I know, since, you know, but one day, maybe?"

John opens his mouth to give his stock "Not gay." answer, but then sighs, who is he kidding "I don't know Greg, I can barely even stand to be around myself at the moment, I can't envisage a future where I could ever be in any kind of relationship with anyone."

"Sorry, that was a stupid thing to ask you, it's still early days, but, he needs you John. Even if you can't be with him like that, he needs you to be his friend."

"What the hell do you want from me?" John screams, standing and towering over Greg "I can't even look after myself, what am I meant to do?"

Greg can see that part of John wants him to shout back, to escalate this into a full scale screaming match, at which point Greg would probably find himself laid out on the floor. Instead he stays in his chair and quietly says "I don't know John, we need to work it out, but I'm not expecting you to fix all of this on your own."

In the absence of a target for his rage John turns and punches the wall, then without saying another word, walks into his bedroom and slams the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today :-)

Lestrade has left and Sherlock sits and dares to consider the possibility of John forgiving him and returning. He tries to believe, but his mind is screaming at him that no one wants him, and that he doesn't deserve forgiveness. He wants to try to do as Lestrade asked and look after his body, but his skin itches with need for something. Eventually the need becomes too much and he fetches a t-shirt from his room, pulls it on and slips on some shoes. Going out still in his pyjama trousers he gets into a cab, ignoring the strange looks he gets from the driver and goes to seek more cocaine. 

Once inside the drug den, surrounded by people passed out on thin mattresses on the floor the temptation is to stay. He imagines joining them, lying down and drifting into oblivion, sinking further away from the pain inside. He would gradually disappear until no one would be forced to deal with him anymore. Eventually his hateful 'transport' would give up and free him from this life, the blackness would claim him and he would be no more. He nearly gives in, but the slight hope fluttering inside that maybe Lestrade is right, maybe he can be forgiven one day, holds him back and he just buys enough for one hit. After all, it is always an option for later.

Once back in the flat his first task is to move The Mug into his room lest any more helpful idiots come to visit and try to take away the last gift that John had given to him. 

Returning to the lounge he injects himself and lies down on the sofa, he wants to let go, but it's not enough. Cursing his high tolerance level he goes to the kitchen in search of alcohol but discovers that it is all gone. He smiles to himself, Lestrade had missed a supply in the desk drawer, gifts from grateful clients. There is an expensive bottle of whisky and a small bottle of incredibly strong vodka. He picks up the vodka bottle and sits on the floor on front of the desk and drinks the vodka straight from the bottle. He gulps it down, desperate to stop the voices inside his head telling him that he is alone, that he is worthless, until his stomach rebels and he has to run to the bathroom. He barely makes it and vomit spots his clothes, but he doesn't care. The alcohol that had made it into his system combining with the drugs finally quiets his mind. He picks up the vodka bottle, shaking it to drain the last drops and sits with it in his armchair as he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I promise it is going to start getting better soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait x

A few hours after his outburst John emerges from Greg's guest bedroom feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. Greg had taken him in when he had nowhere else to go and John had tried to intimidate him, yelled at him and had very nearly attacked him.

He finds Greg sitting in the lounge reading the paper, he goes in without a word and sits down putting his head in his hands to avoid looking his friend in the eye.

He sounds totally defeated as he says "I'm so sorry. I think I should go and find somewhere else to stay."

"Can't say I'm thrilled about having you yell at me, but I get it. You haven't been right since you lost Mary. I thought you were coping quite well, but it turns out you were being held together with spit and glue." Greg replies calmly.

"Yeah, well now it looks like I've fucking fallen apart." John snaps back, then takes a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Greg looks at him for a moment, assessing his state of mind, but then decides that John is calm enough to continue. "Hmm. I've been talking to Mycroft about that while you were.. calming down."

John panics a little "Mycroft! God that's the last thing I need. After the way I treated Sherlock they'll probably never find my body."

Greg chuckles nervously "Nonsense mate, we're all here for you. He's found you a place where they can help you. Some kind of clinic. He's sending a car to collect you in the morning, I'm not sure where it is but he promised it's the best around."

John looks dubious "Do you mean therapy, like psychiatrists?"

"Something like that. I don't know all the details but it's all taken care of. A couple of months they reckon to get you well enough to come home."

"A live in place, not sure if I want to do that."

Greg shifts awkwardly in his chair and says "Um. I'm not sure you are being given much choice, Mycroft's not exactly impressed with you right now, but he knows that Sherlock needs you so he's willing to help you get healthy."

"Sounds like it's not so far fetched me waking up dead."

Greg decides to try to ignore that, it wouldn't do any good to have John focused on how angry Mycroft is. "Sherlock is in a bad way, you know what I told you earlier, we think he needs therapy too."

"Mycroft's sending him to a clinic too?"

"Christ no! When we tried to send him to rehab years ago he made half the staff cry then escaped before his second night."

John starts to giggle "Oh God, of course he did."

"He's going to have to find a therapist he can see while living at home. Mycroft had a file dropped off with a list for him to choose from." Greg says, pushing a blue folder across the table towards John.

John huffs "Good luck getting him to agree to that."

"That's why you aren't going until tomorrow, we need you to talk to him. I don't think anyone else could convince him to do it."

John is shocked, what the hell is Greg thinking? "I'm not sure that's a good idea. After last time I saw him, I don't want to lose it again and hurt him."

"You won't, I'm sure you can control it long enough for one conversation." Greg says with as much conviction as he can manage, hiding the slight doubt that he has about the plan. It is the only plan they have with any hope of working.

"Were you even here earlier? I was this close to punching you."

"But you didn't. I..I had a bit of an argument with Mycroft about this, but I really think that you need to see him before you go. He really cares about you and I think you care about him."

"Course I do." John had no hesitation saying this, even though anger is still bubbling away inside, not caring about Sherlock is not even an option.

"Right. Well, you just need to talk to him for 10 minutes, tell him that you will be coming back and that he is important to you and ask him to go and see someone. You don't need to stay to pack your things, I can go by this evening to do that."

"I can't Greg."

"You have to. I think he has been falling apart for months but he has been helping you the whole time, I'm just asking you for 10 minutes. Please. He wouldn't do it for me, or for his brother, but if we don't get him to accept help he's going to end up killing himself."

"What do you mean he's been helping me?" John is confused. It has been good at Baker Street, but mostly because Sherlock has just been acting like everything is normal and leaving him alone so he didn't have to pretend to be happy.

"You've been having nightmares the whole time, he's been playing the violin every night, 2 or 3 times, to help you get back to sleep. He's been trying to make sure you only watch certain programmes on TV so you don't get upset, and I'm sure he has been watching every word he says with you. He has made his whole life about helping you, but he can't do it anymore, now he needs you."

John bites his lip. He has been so blind, so wrapped up in himself he hasn't noticed what was right under his nose. He nods once with tears in his eyes before going to fetch his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is almost written, so not so long until the next update, I promise :-)


	11. Chapter 11

John steps into 221B cautiously, having been briefed by Greg he knows roughly what to expect, but is still shocked by the sight of Sherlock half passed out in his armchair. He puts the folder he is carrying down on the coffee table, removes his coat and scarf then stands in front of Sherlock to study him.

The empty vodka bottle (no glass, John notes), vomit on Sherlock's clothes and fresh track marks on his inner arm show testament to Sherlock's ignoral of Greg's pleas to look after himself. His hair is unwashed and stubble is showing on his chin. Now that John really looks he can see that Sherlock has lost weight, his normal bordering-on-too-thin frame has now toppled over into gaunt. He's been hiding it under coats, suit jackets and well draped dressing gowns, but now in just a thin cotton t-shirt it is obvious that his ribs are too prominent, and his arms too thin. John's eyes skirt over the bruised eye and grazed cheek, skim over the blood specks still around Sherlock's nose where he has failed to wash them away. Observes them just enough to conclude there is no medical danger then cannot bear to linger. He knows there will be bruising hiding under the t-shirt too, but Greg said it was fine and he cannot bring himself to face the torture of looking at them.  
He leans over his friend and pulls the vodka bottle out of his arms and places it onto the table. He tenderly brushes a curl back off of Sherlock's face then gently shakes him by the shoulder to wake him, calling softly "Sherlock. Sherlock! Are you listening?"

Sherlock lifts his head.

"I'm leaving," John continues, Sherlock's eyes widen in fear so he hurries to add "just for a while. Mycroft has offered to put me into a facility. They're going to help me with, with my grief and, and my anger." John stops and stares at the fireplace, sighs, and then continues. "I know you have been helping me, and you've done pretty well considering I never even talked to you about any of this, but it really hasn't been working for either of us has it?"

Sherlock desperately wants to say that it is all working, that they will be fine, but sitting here, covered in bruises, track marks on his arms and traces of his own vomit from where he drank a whole bottle of vodka this morning on his clothes, is not a good position to argue that point from. Instead he pouts with tears in his eyes and looks away from his John, his heart, his everything.

Seeing the moment that Sherlock accepts the inevitable John presses on.

"I need help Sherlock. I. Oh God. I've got so much anger in me, I'm so sorry for what happened, I shouldn't have hit you, it all came out and...." A few deep breaths as John studies the wallpaper, "I scare myself. I'm scared I'll hurt you again, or someone else. Christ I almost lost it with Greg earlier. I need help Sherlock, and I think you do too."

Sherlock turns his head so fast he feels a twinge in his neck where he pulls a muscle. His mouth opens to begin arguing but John plows on determined to just get this out, and Sherlock's jaw snaps shut again.

"Don't argue with me, please. I'm not in a place now where I can argue without risking it escalating. You need help Sherlock. Just look at you, you haven't been eating, you're drunk and you've been shooting up. Greg... Greg told me why you took the ring."

Sherlock hangs his head and then tries to curl up into himself on the armchair to hide from his embarrassment.

"I'm still angry about it, but, I feel so bad that you needed to do that to feel happy. All these texts you've been sending, the things you told Greg, you seem to think you are... worthless or something, someone who doesn't deserve love. Well I can tell you that that is just crap. You do deserve to be loved, you hide it, but you are one of the best men that I know. I can tell you now that I do love you, as a friend, and so do Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Molly, I think since you came back from the dead maybe even Anderson." Sherlock snorts. "You've got Mycroft who loves you, and you love him even if you are both idiots who pretend otherwise, and you've got your Mum and Dad. I really don't know where this stupid view of yourself comes from, but you need help to fix it, and then I think it will be much easier to sort out the eating, drinking and drugs."

"I'm not going to one of Mycroft's "clinics", I had enough of that when he locked me away in rehab."

John nods. "I know. God knows we wouldn't want to inflict that on the poor staff either. You need to find a therapist to talk to, Mycroft has given me a list." He gestures to the blue cardboard folder on the table.

Sherlock looks at John as if he has declared that Sherlock needs to go and live in the Antarctic and hunt penguins for a living. "That worked out so well for you didn't it." He says to John angrily.

John can feel his adrenaline rising and he clenches his fists, breathing deeply to calm himself he replies "I lied to her, I hid my anger, and I skipped sessions, hiding out in the park. If I had tried maybe this wouldn't have built up so much that I need a live in facility to help me."

"If she was any good she should have seen through your lies. Therapists are just dressed up charlatans, I will not subject myself to their idiocy." Sherlock spits out defiantly.

John's patience is gone, he grabs Sherlock by the front of his shirt, partially lifting him from the chair and screams directly into his face "I don't know then Sherlock, you just carry on as you are and kill yourself. I'll just grieve for you as well shall I? Then after a year or so of that I'll eat my gun and join you. We can all be dead together, that's what you want is it? You won't even try, you bastard."

Letting go of Sherlock, who drops back down into the armchair, his breath huffing out of his lungs, John turns, grabs his coat and leaves the flat slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock sits dazed. His mind is still fogged from the residual alcohol and he is having trouble understanding everything that John had said. One thing stands out though. The image of John mourning for him and then dying at his own hand. That cannot be allowed to happen. The thought of it makes bile rise in his throat. He would do anything for John, and this is what John needs. In order for John to get better, Sherlock needs to get better.

His resolve sharpens, he cannot take care of himself for his own sake, but if he views himself as John's property, and that John needs Sherlock to look after his property for him while he is away, then maybe he can do it. A vague part of his mind is trying to tell him that this is not at all healthy, that he should be doing this for himself, but the larger part of his mind decides that attempting that would be doomed to failure. At least this way he can start. If a therapist is really that good they can sort out the rest for him.

He finds his phone in the kitchen and texts John.

**I am sorry. I will see someone. I will try. SH**

John pauses in his furious march around Regents Park when he hears his message tone. A small smile lights up his face at Sherlock's text.

**Thank you, I'm going back to Greg's now. I'll send him to get my things tonight. I'm leaving in the morning. Please eat something.**

Sherlock looks at the unopened bottle of whisky that sits in the desk drawer. He wants to drink it, feels like for John's sake he should pour it down the sink, but instead settles for closing the drawer, hiding the temptation. He makes himself some tea and eats some biscuits. Going to his room he sees The Cup Of Tea, the one he has been saving, mold is beginning to bloom on the surface, feeding on the milk and sugar. He steels himself and takes it to the kitchen, pouring it away and washing the mug, John will be back, he said he is just going for a while, he needs to believe that John would not have lied about that, so there will be more tea, no need to make a shrine of it. Having hardly slept the previous night he decides that he should sleep so goes to bed. If he steals the scarf that John wore to the flat earlier and forgot in his haste to leave, and holds it while he sleeps, inhaling the scent lingering in the fabric, well no one needs to know about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I am having a bit of trouble with the next chapter, but will post it as soon as I can x


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOO sorry for the ridiculous amount of time between updates.
> 
> Following the mess that the poor boys have gotten into in The Lying Detective I felt I wanted to help them. I can't affect the show so thought I had to continue this fic and at least fix this one for the boys.
> 
> On returning to this I found that I had already written all of the raw dialogue and texts for the rest of the story but it was all out of order and needed linking together. I hope I've managed to make it into a cohesive story.
> 
> ___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock sleeps all evening and into the early hours. Meanwhile Greg comes and goes, he has packed John's things, stocked the fridge and removed the whisky bottle that he had missed in the morning.  
  
It is 5am when Sherlock wakes, his head is pounding with a hangover and his skin is itching again with withdrawal. He wants drugs, or alcohol or the endorphin rush that he has been achieving with his delusions of being in a relationship with John. Anything to stop being himself.   
  
He drinks the water and takes the paracetamol that Greg must have left on his nightstand and lays still in bed trying to figure out how he had come to this. He hears voices inside saying that it is all because he wasn't good enough, that it is because he should be alone. He counters the voices with the memory of John saying that he is "one of the best men" that he knows, and that he is loved. A small smile appears as he remembers that even though it had been qualified with "as a friend", John had still told him that he loves him. He can do this, for John.  
  
He rises and forces himself to the bathroom; he voids his bladder and then has a shower and shaves. Looking in the mirror he can see the bruises that he had caused by betraying John ("not your fault" a tiny part of him insists).   
  
He is too thin, he can see that, but having never had a particularly healthy relationship with food and now having reduced his eating even further for the past few months he really has no appetite to speak of. However, it is morning, and in the morning John normally tries to feed him tea and toast, so tea and toast it is. He goes to the kitchen and eats, he can only manage one slice with his shrunken stomach, but he tries to imagine that John would be proud of him.  
  
Once he has finished eating Sherlock goes to the lounge and flops into his armchair. He idly flicks through the folder of therapists. His past experiences with this profession have been deplorable and he is loathe to return, but, needs must. He decides the only sensible option is to meet with them and make an educated decision as to which is the least intolerable.   
  
He is reading the file for a second time, actually taking in some of the information this time, when his text alert sounds. He scrambles for his phone, hoping that it is a message from John, but is disappointed when he sees his brother's name.  
  
**I trust that you are now sober brother dear. Doctor Watson in en route to the clinic, he will be incommunicado for several days. I trust you are contacting one of the therapists on the list that I sent you. I will visit as soon as I can get back to England. MH**  
  
Sherlock growls at the thought that John will be held prisoner for days with no contact with the outside world. He is tempted to say that he will not contract the therapists to spite Mycroft, but John wants him to get help so instead he simply ignores the text.  
  
He spends the afternoon emailing the therapist's secretaries to set up appointments and only belatedly realises that he has missed lunch when he notices that it is gone 5pm.  
  
He finds a can of soup in the cupboard that he thinks he could stomach and eats the whole can along with two slices of toast and a few biscuits. He realises that this is the most he has eaten in one sitting for some time.  
  
Over the next few days Greg stops in several times with supplies (and to subtly check up on him). Mrs Hudson recovers from her flu and, on discovering what has been going on upstairs, takes it upon herself to stop in regularly for tea and biscuits and to give him casseroles that she has made. Sherlock is surprised to find his appetite recovering a little and manages to eat more than he expected, much to Mrs Hudson’s delight.  
  
Sherlock himself is still feeling the need for mind altering chemicals of some description, but is just about managing control himself by imagining the disappointment on John's face if he gives in. He has been putting off his meetings with the therapists, postponing them several times with excuses of headaches and tube strikes, he is going just..not yet..he’s not ready.

  
\----

 

After four days Sherlock receives a text from John,

 

**Hi, they have given me my phone back.**

His hand trembles as he reads. A large part of him thought he would never hear from John again.

**John? SH**

  
  
**Yes.**

  
  
**Are you still angry with me? SH**

  
  
**A bit.**

  
  
Tears spring to his eyes. John is still angry, of course he is, how could he not be? Sherlock slumps into his chair and goes inside his head raging at himself for hoping he had been forgiven, arguing inside that he didn’t deserve it. Two hours later he is brought out by the beep signalling another text from John.

  
**Not so angry that I don't want to talk to you though.**

  
  
Sherlock sobs in relief and replies quickly before he can talk himself out of it.

 

 **I miss you. SH**  


The reply comes almost instantly.

  
 **I miss you too. It's boring without body parts hanging around to keep me on my toes.**  


Sherlock smiles and cries at the same time, he can’t think of a single thing to say in reply but he promises himself he will keep the appointments he has made with the therapists, John needs his old life back and for that he needs Sherlock to be better.

 

\---

  
Over the following week Sherlock attends appointments with ten therapists, managing to cause most of them to ban him from their offices when in his anger at their assumption that they can fix him he lashes out with insults and harsh deductions, leaving some of them and their receptionists in tears.   
  
As he reaches the end of his list he concludes that he was right, no one can fix him, when he receives an email from therapist number 4, a Miss Bowman, a middle aged woman who had not cried when told that she had little hope of ever finding a husband due to her chronic halitosis, but had politely asked him to leave when he had insulted a patient in the waiting room.  
  
**Mr Holmes**  
  
**I can not tolerate my patients insulting each other, but you will find you will need to try much harder than that to upset me. If you can refrain from interacting with anyone in my waiting room I would very much like to work with you to find a solution to your problems.**  
  
**Susan Bowman.**  
  
Sherlock thinks back, she had not actually seemed like an unintelligent woman, the halitosis being the only obvious thing he could have thrown at her. She seems keen to help, so Sherlock decides that she will have to do. He messages back to arrange his first session.

 

A few days later Sherlock sits in front of the fire as he sends a text to John,

 

**I have found a therapist, her name is Susan. She has now cured her halitosis, she is only a little dull and her intellect is tolerable. SH**

  
  
He stares into the flames, trying to keep his mind empty as he waits for a reply, he is incredibly relieved it only takes five minutes.

 

**She must be a bloody genius then. I'm so proud of you, please try your best to work with her. And please eat.**

Sherlock breathes deeply and feels his heart swell at John’s words.

  
  
**I will try. SH**

  
  
**I have to go, I have a session to get to. Take care of yourself.**

“I will,” Sherlock thinks, “for you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, no evil therapists in this one.
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John goes into his first one on one session nervously. So far during his stay at the centre he has stayed quiet and tried not to draw to much attention to himself, but today there will be no hiding. Abigail is waiting in an armchair with an empty matching chair waiting for him to fill it. The room, like the whole place, is decorated like a smart hotel in pastel, calming colours, and Abigail herself is projecting an air of calm, dressed in neutral colours with a neat skirt and a cosy looking cardigan. His fist clenches automatically as he centres himself and takes a seat, he knows this is necessary but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

”So John we are here to discuss your anger issues.”

”Yes.” He replies curtly.

”I have watched some of your group sessions, you haven't been participating much.”

”No.”

”Why do you think that is?”

John looks down and shakes head.

Abigail tips her head to the side. “This all started when your wife died?”

John bites back his anger. She knows full well. “Yes.”

”Are you sure?”

John can feel the anger simmering inside begin to rise a little and snaps, ”Of course it did.”

Abigail decides to leave it. She can see that there are other things at work here but the issue surrounding his wife is obviously the largest source of anger, they will deal with the rest later.

”Right. I am very sorry for your loss John, but could you tell me why it has made you so angry, not just upset.”

”I was supposed to have a life, I was going to be a dad, I loved her.”

”Those sound like reasons to be sad that they are gone John, what about it is making you angry?”

”That bastard, he stole it all from me, he took my life.” John’s voice is rising and his fists clenching and unclenching uncontrollably.

”So you are angry at the driver?” She asks, her voice still calm and even, although she does glance at the panic button sitting unobtrusively next to vase on the side table.

”Yes.”

”It seems to me, if you were just angry at him you wouldn't be having this much trouble with anger towards your friends.”

John just sits in his chair with his eyes squeezed shut.

”Is there someone else you are angry at?”

For several seconds John doesn't reply, then says "It's my fault."

”John, why is it your fault? It was an accident. You weren't there, there was nothing you could have done.”

”Everything is always my fault.”

”You are carrying too much, you aren't responsible for everyone.”

”It feels like it.” He replies quietly as a single tear makes its way down his cheek.

”Are you angry with yourself?”

”Yes.”

”You need to understand that it wasn't your fault. You could not have known that Mary was going to be in an accident.”

At hearing his wife name John stands and squeezes his eyes against the tears. Abigail just sits and waits, after twenty seconds he sits back down.

”John, what are you thinking?”

”My fault.”

”It’s not.” She says quietly.

John explodes, he stands over her shouting "I fucking wished for it, ok. Happy now? I wished for my wife and baby to be gone, and then they fucking were. So yes, it fucking well is my fault. I wanted it, and for the bloody first time ever the universe listened and took them away."

Abigail’s eyes flick to the panic button again but she remains calm as she says “I want you to take some deep breaths, lets just calm down.”

John still angry says in clipped tones. “No. You know what. No. I'm done here for today. I want to go back to my room. I can't do this now.”


	14. Chapter 14

Over the next few weeks John just sits in group sessions and barely talks in their one on ones. He has shut down. There are a few brief text conversations with Sherlock, he can’t bring himself to completely shut the man out in case it sets back his recovery, but can barely manage more than one word answers.

 

Then one day in another one on one session in the now familiar room, while Abigail is asking why he feels he isn't making progress, John asks "Do you hate me?"  
  
”Why would I hate you John?”  
  
”I wished them away. My beautiful wife, and my..  my baby girl.”  
  
”It was a big change in your life, being part of a family. It is normal to have daydreams sometimes. It doesn't mean that you really wanted them gone.”  
  
”But part of me did.”  
  
”Why do you think that is?”  
  
”Sherlock needed me. I wanted to be there for him.”  
  
”Your friend? Being a husband and father doesn't mean that you can't also be there for your friends.”  
  
”I missed living with him. He came back, and I was with Mary. I wanted to go back to him, so I wished it and then it happened, and then I did go back. I got every fucking thing I wished for.”  
  
”I have been informed about your friend’s time away. You thought he was dead, so you moved on.”  
  
John shifts awkwardly in his chair, “It's not like that, we were never..”  
  
“John?”  
  
“I'm not gay alright, I'm not!” He shouts.  
  
“I didn't say you were.”  
  
“I'm not.” he mumbles.  
  
“John are you in love with Sherlock?”  
  
“I love Mary.”  
  
Abigail sits in silence watching John as he struggles with himself. After a few minutes he answers quietly, “Yes. I wished that I hadn't met her, then when he came back I could have told him.”  
  
She nods.  
  
“When I saw him wearing that ring...” he shakes his head and his jaw clenches in anger.  
  
 “Ring?” Abigail asks, of course she has been informed about this, but playing dumb is often a good way to get people to talk.  
  
“I found him, wearing Mary's wedding ring. I.. I had wanted to marry him, so I wished her away, and then she died. I am disgusting, I don't deserve to get what I wished for.”  
  
“That's why you hit him?”  
  
”Why? Why did he have to do that? He can't take her place, I can't just erase her and my daughter and let him replace them.” John looks all around the room to avoid making eye contact.  
  
”This is a very complex situation, to lose someone you love and move on, just to have them return. That is very confusing.”  
  
”I was just about to ask Mary to marry me when he came back. I couldn't just dump her to go back to him.”  
  
”I understand.”  
  
”I didn't want to.. to dump her, I wanted to marry her. I..I loved both of them.”  
  
”So you proposed and got married.”  
  
”I didn't think he felt that way anyway. There wasn't anything to go back to, he couldn't love me anyway.”  
  
”So you continued with the marriage.”  
  
”Why didn't he tell me? Why didn't he say? That bastard, if the had told me maybe I wouldn't have married her. Maybe I would have just gone back to him and I would never have...I wished for my baby to die.” John sobs, and tears roll down his cheeks.  
  
Abigail leans forwards, her elbows resting on her knees, and asks gently ”Did you John? In your daydreams, did your baby die? Did Mary die?”  
  
John swallows thickly. “They were gone.”  
  
”Gone? How?”  
  
”They just weren't there.”  
  
”So not dead, you didn't actually wish for a lorry to come and knock them down?”  
  
He shakes his head  
  
”You just wished for a simple life where the man you loved had come back and there was nothing in the way of you going to him.”  
  
”Yes.”  
  
”You didn't want them to die.”  
  
”I wanted them to not exist, that's just as bad.”  
  
”No. No, it really isn't. You were dealing with a dichotomy, two realities that you wanted to live in and suddenly both became possible and you were stuck following one of the paths. It is natural to think about the other path, the what ifs. You were struggling to make choices in an impossible situation. You needed to see in your mind what the other path would have been.”  
  
”I don't know.” he murmurs, shaking his head which is feels too full.  
  
”You needed to do that to see if you had made the right choice.”  
  
”There was no choice. Sherlock didn't feel like that, at least I thought he didn't. It was just for myself, it was selfish.”  
  
”You are human John. I hate to tell you this but underneath it all everyone has a tendency towards being selfish, and in the privacy of your head a few minutes of selfishness is not something you need to punish yourself for. It is actions that define you, what you decide to do with those thoughts. Would you have left her?”  
  
”What? No.”  
  
”If you knew how he felt?”  
  
”When he first came back? Probably.” he admits feeling a little sick.  
  
”Once you were married, with the baby on the way, if he had told you then that he loved you, would you have left her. Not in your mind, not would you have thought about it, not would you have been tempted, would. you. have. left. her?”  
  
”No. No, I love Mary, I love our baby. I couldn't have left them. It would have been hard, but I wouldn't have left.” He actually manages to look into her eyes as he says this.  
  
Abigail smiles. “That John, is why you don't need to be angry with yourself. You are a good man.”  
  
”If he had told me earlier…”  
  
”He didn't though John, there is no point being angry about that. He had his reasons I'm sure. Maybe you should ask him.”  
  
Tears stream down his face. “I love them and they are gone.”  
  
”I know.”  
  
”I can't replace them.”  
  
”Would Mary want this? It was no ones fault she is gone, not yours, not Sherlock's, would she want you to spend your life alone because of her.”  
  
”No. She was.. No. She wouldn't want me to be..” He gestures to himself, to the state he is in.  
  
Abigail smiles, “Our time is up, just, think about this John. Be kind to yourself. You deserve happiness.”  
  
”No.”  
  
”Yes. You do. You tried one path, and it went tragically, horribly wrong. But you have another chance to try to be happy, in another way.”  
  
”I love him.”  
  
She nods encouragingly.  
  
”He loves me.”  
  
She smiles and nods again, “You don't need to stop loving Mary and the baby, you have room in your heart for all of them.”  
  
John gives a watery smile and nods, then walks out. He pulls out his phone to text Sherlock.  
  
**Why didn't you tell me you loved me when you came back?**  
  
A few minutes later the reply comes.  
  
**Because you were with Mary, I didn't want to ruin things for you. SH**  
  
John nods to himself and huffs a laugh. Blind idiots the pair of them. But he can't blame Sherlock anymore, it was a misunderstanding, no ones fault.  
  
**Ok. Had a bit of a hard session today. Figured some things out. I am going to need a few days to think about it. Are you ok?**  
  
Doing better. I miss you. SH  
  
**I miss you too. I'll text in a few days.**


	15. Chapter 15

Two days later Sherlock texts John at the insistence of his therapist.  
  
**Susan says I need to tell you how I feel. SH**  


John isn’t really up for a conversation now, he still needs to work through the things that came up in his last session, but if Sherlock’s therapist wants him to do this it must be important so he replies,

  
**Ok, go for it.**  


It is only  a few seconds later that his phone beeps again.

  
**I am in love with you. I feel like I gave my heart to you long ago, but you didn't notice and you left me for Mary even when you knew I was back. I do not blame you for that because it just confirmed for me what I already knew which was that no one could ever love me in that way. SH**  
  
**Is Susan working with you on this, because it starts well but by the end it's pretty fucked up?**  
  
**Yes, she says I am making some incorrect assumptions about myself. SH**  
  
**Are you actually listening to her?**  
  
**I am trying not to dismiss what she says, even though some of it is ridiculous. SH**  
  
**Good.**  
  
**Are you still angry? SH**  
  
**Yes, but, not with you. Can we leave it a few days? I need to work something out.**  
  
**Ok. SH**

**\---**  
  
A week later John is sitting in the dining room when he receives a text from Sherlock.  
  
**I have put on 4 pounds. SH**  
  
He grins in unexpected joy at hearing from Sherlock and with such good news.

 

**Wow, well done. You are doing so well.**

  
  
**Mrs Hudson keeps bringing me scones, I do not believe that anybody could physically eat all of the scones she had given me in the last three days. SH**

  
  
John laughs, it feels so good to be happy that the laugh actually turns a little manic drawing glances from the nurses dotted around the room.

 

**Lol. Try to eat something healthy too. Or a takeaway. The food here is vile, Mycroft obviously didn't choose it for the catering.**

  
  
**You amaze me. I thought the menu would be upmost in his mind at all times. SH**

  
  
**Be nice. But it’s good to hear you being snarky again. Miss you.**

  
  
**Did you work it out? The thing from last week. SH**

  
  
**I think so, I am going to need to email you about it, is a bit complicated for a text. I’ll send it later today.**

  
  
**Good. SH**  
  
John finishes his lunch quickly then goes to his room to compose his message.  
  
**To: Sherlock Holmes**  
**From: John Watson**  
  
**Dear Sherlock,**  
  
**I need to get this down in writing so that I can get it right.**  
 **I love you. Properly, not just as friends. I think I half realised it when you were dead, but it was too late by then so I hid from it to try to stop it hurting so much.**  
  
**I tried to move on and met Mary, and despite everything I really did love her. The thing is that I always loved you more. I was living with her, and I didn't think you felt the same so I went ahead and married her, and we were having a baby and I so wanted to be a father, I so wanted that baby.**  
  
**There was a small part of me though that wished that I had never met Mary, that she would just cease to exist and our baby along with her so that I could have been with you when you came back. I dreamt about it several times and I always felt guilty afterwards.**  
  
**Then, she was gone, and it was like I had made it happen, I wished them away and then they were gone. I felt guilty, and then I felt angry at myself, and then I felt angry at you because you were the reason I had wished that, even though it wasn't your fault.**  
  
**I hid all of this away, most of it even from myself, until I saw you in that ring. It was like in my wishes where they were gone and you had taken Mary's place, and it was such a terrible thing to wish for.**  
  
**I am sorry that I took this out on you. My therapists are saying that I need to work on forgiving myself. I'll be in touch in a few days.**  
  
**John.**  
  
Sherlock nearly drops his phone in shock when he reads the email. He had hoped for forgiveness and over the last week had even begun to feel like maybe he deserved it, and to have his friend back in his life, but this, he had never believed that this was a possibility.

 

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**To: John Watson**

**Dear John,**

**I find myself unsure how to respond. I have already told you how I feel, so just know that I will be here in Baker Street waiting for you and attempting not to drown under the sea of pastries and tea that our landlady is forcing on me.**

**Yours, Sherlock.**


	16. Baker Street Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the conclusion.........
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is a month before John is released. He still needs outpatients appointments, but he feels much more in control of himself as he mounts the stairs to 221B. Sherlock knew he was coming out soon, but John hadn’t told him the date, wanting to surprise him. He opens the door to find Sherlock pouring over case files at his desk, two laptops open (one of which John notes is his), and there are ominous bubbling sounds coming from the kitchen. John smiles at just how normal this scene is. Sherlock turns and his face lights up when he sees John. He stands and starts to close the gap between them but stops hesitantly, unsure if he is allowed to touch.

 

“Hi.” John says, placing his bags by the door.

 

“Hello.”

 

“I..I’m out.”

 

“Obviously.” Sherlock replies with a smirk.

 

John chuckles “So, I was wondering if it’s OK for me to come back, to live here, with you?”

 

“Of course, of course you can.”

 

John smiles, he pulls a framed photo of Mary out of his bag and moves across the room to place it on the mantelpiece. Sherlock comes to stand next to him and look at the photo. John puts his arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s arm comes to rest around his shoulders in a sideways hug.

 

John studies the photo, Mary is his past, he will always love her, but she is gone and he can now accept that. Glancing up at Sherlock he smiles, this man, he is John's future. This is not a betrayal of the love he and Mary had shared, or of their daughter, this is honouring them by carrying on with his life and carrying their memory forward instead of stagnating in the past, growing bitter and twisted and only remembering the pain of the loss rather than the joy that he had shared in the brief time he had with Mary.   
  
If only he could be brave enough to take the first step on this journey. He licks his lips and pulls out of the hug. Sherlock looks momentarily hurt until John reaches out his hand, gently grasping Sherlock's fingers and squeezing.

 

Sherlock turns towards him and shifts his hand so that their fingers are entwined. "I love you John Watson." He says, completely baring his heart.  
  
"And I love you." John says, reaching up with his spare hand he pulls Sherlock down gently and kisses him sweetly on the lips.   
  
Both men feel their eyes pricking with tears of happiness, and their lips linger before they pull apart and stare into each others eyes, seeing their own joy reflected back at them.  
  
Sherlock's phone beeps and he goes to fetch it from the coffee table, he reads quickly then says "Two dead, found in an alley, tongues missing." He looks up and holds out his hand "Will you come?"  
  
John smiles and takes Sherlock's hand "Oh, God, yes."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you thought it was worth the wait for the end of this, thanks for reading.
> 
> I love kudos and comments :-)
> 
> I am DaisyFairy1 on Tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I have just realised that by completing this fic I have now passed a total of 100,000 words posted on AO3 :-)


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